


Romantic Friendship

by Miss Roylott (Cress221)



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-29
Updated: 2019-10-29
Packaged: 2021-01-06 08:43:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21223775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cress221/pseuds/Miss%20Roylott
Summary: A multi-part story about Holmes's friendships with men. I had at first believed that "romantic friendships" were common in Victorian-era Britain, but unfortunately I was mistaken. It seems that romantic friendships between men died out during the rise of the effeminate molly subculture in Britain, and it was only in America that men's romantic friendships lasted into Victorian times.Thus, more so than my other stories, this tale lies in the realms of pure impossibility. Impossible imaginings, however, can be entertaining at least.





	1. Part 1

It began with his dog. The bull terrier had never before been so far from its home in Norfolk, and the relative bustle of the university town made the animal excitable and unruly. It soon broke away from its owner and tore down the street, joyfully exploring all the new sights and smells.

Victor Trevor ran after his dog and called its name as it darted in and out among the crowds making their way toward chapel. When a lone student passed by obliviously on the pavement, so engrossed in his book that he nearly stepped on the animal, it retaliated by locking its jaws onto the student's ankle.

"Ah!"

Trevor caught up with his dog at last, horrified by its attack upon the young man. "Down, boy! Down!" Once he got the creature to release its grip and behave itself, he offered profuse apologies to the injured student and retrieved his dropped book. "I'm so sorry. He never acts this way at home, I swear. Let me take you to have that mended. Here, lean on me."

So Trevor escorted the poor fellow to the infirmary, making sure to keep his dog occupied with a toy as it accompanied them. The dark-haired student said nothing, but he was clearly cross and in pain. They missed the chapel service, and Trevor sat guiltily in the waiting-room with his now docile dog. He realised his lack of wisdom in sending for his dog from home, but he had just been so lonely for company lately. Trevor sighed, glanced at the book in his hand, and wondered again how to make up for the trouble he had inadvertently caused.

The dark-haired student finally reappeared, with the help of an attendant.

Trevor gasped to see him reclining in the invalid's chair. "Is it that bad?"

He calmly shook his head and pursed his lips. "I shall mend, Trevor. I am simply forbidden to be on my feet for ten days." He looked uncomfortable with the arrangement, but was resigned to his confinement.

"Oh I'm so sorry! I--Wait," Trevor frowned with bewilderment, "you know my name?"

"We take the same lecture with Mr. Battersby."

"Oh, yes! That's right, you do look familiar. You're, um--" he groped for the name.

"Holmes. Sherlock Holmes." He did not offer to shake Trevor's hand. "Is that my book you have there?"

"Yes, here. Not damaged, so that's one bright spot." He tried to be cheery, but Holmes did not return his smile, so he cleared his throat. "Anyway, I'm terribly sorry. If there's anything I can do, anything..."

Holmes gestured to the dog lying at Trevor's feet. "You can get a new, stronger leash before you take him out walking again."

"Yes, yes, I certainly will. In fact," he became sheepish, "I suppose I'll have to send him home again. I didn't properly think through having him here with me. I'm so sorry."

Holmes dismissed the repetition with a wave of his hand, then glanced at Trevor and ventured, "Your home is in Norfolk?"

He blinked. "How did you know?"

"Your accent."

"Oh," he was embarrassed and felt like a rube. "Well, yes, Norfolk's my home. We have a little place in Donnithorpe, just to the north of Langmere."

"Must be good grounds for a dog to roam round in," he remarked. "Good day, then."

"Um, good day."

Trevor watched him turn awkwardly in his chair and ask the attendant to deposit him at his rooms. The pitiable sight was in distinct contrast to the many times that Trevor had seen Holmes exiting Battersby's lectures with a graceful, easy stride.

When they had gone, Trevor bent down and picked up his dog, hugging it regretfully. "Sorry, boy, I shouldn't have sent for you. Come on, let's go write dad to send a servant to take you back home."

* * *

Trevor visited Holmes the next day, having heard him give the name of his college to his attendant at the infirmary. Knowing that much, it was merely a matter of inquiring with the porter of Holmes's college to find out his exact rooms. Trevor brought along a book as a token of apology.

Holmes lay stretched upon his sofa in his dressing-gown and was inclined to refuse visitors, but when Trevor assured him that he was alone, and mentioned his book, Holmes finally consented to his entering.

Trevor took a chair near Holmes, and proffered his book.

Holmes glanced at the title. "A good guess of my tastes. You no doubt noticed the title of the book I had with me the other day."

"Yes."

"And you remembered the name of my college, from when I spoke it the other day. You observe details. That's good."

"Good for making amends to you, at least."

"Now stop it, Trevor! I do not need endless repetitions of apology. I fully understand that you are contrite."

"But do you forgive me?"

"Oh, is that what worries you so? Very well, I forgive you, Trevor. It was partly my fault, anyway; I should have looked where I was going, and not opened my book until I was seated at chapel."

"Does it still hurt very much?"

He shrugged. "I was left with sufficient pain-killers."

"Good. Is there anything I can do for you? May I bring you notes from the lectures you are missing? There's Penwright, besides Battersby."

"Ah, you did notice me, then."

"I remembered you there after wracking my brain awhile. You do tend to disappear into the background, Holmes. All by yourself there, hardly saying anything."

"That is the way I prefer it."

"It's funny that I don't see you in the more general lectures, the ones I thought all the lads of our year take."

"My line of study is eccentric." He made no further elaboration.

After an awkward silence, Trevor spoke again. "I tend to be by myself, too. It's a bit lonely around here, and I don't know anybody too well. It's hard for me to be so far away from the lads I grew up with."

"Is that why you sent for your dog?"

"Yes." Was his desperation that transparent?

"Have you sent him back yet?"

"Not yet. Someone's coming on the next train to fetch him."

"You haven't brought him with you?" Holmes narrowed his eyes at the door as if fearing that the canine was lurking on the other side of it.

"No, no, I'm having someone watch him now in my rooms."

"You ought to go back and check on him, then. A stranger may not be able to manage him easily, and you yourself lost control of him yesterday." With that dismissal, he opened the book that Trevor had brought him and began to skim its pages.

Not knowing what else to do, Trevor got up to leave. "Good morning, then."

"Good morning. Close the door as you go."

* * *

Despite Holmes's coldness, bordering on rudeness, Trevor felt compelled to keep calling upon him as he recovered. He had the excuse of sharing his notes with Holmes, after all, and after the ten days of confinement had passed, Trevor carried things for Holmes while he hobbled around on his crutch. Holmes clearly hated losing his independence, but at least Trevor could offer intelligent conversation and did not play the nursemaid too much.

So they became friends, which cheered Trevor considerably, for he had thought he might never make any friends at this university. By the time that Holmes progressed to walking with a cane, Trevor visited his rooms almost daily, and Holmes began to tell him about his hobby of deducing facts about people based upon details of their behaviour and appearance. His demonstrations impressed Trevor a great deal.

One particular day marked a turning point in their intimacy. Trevor entered Holmes's rooms without knocking, as he was accustomed to doing lately, and smiled as he saw Holmes lounging upon the sofa with a book, not even raising his head to acknowledge Trevor's arrival.

Chuckling a little, Trevor quickly crossed the room and knelt by his side on the floor. He casually moved to kiss Holmes, and startled him.

"Trevor!" he drew back sharply, dropping his book.

"Call me Victor. We're friends, aren't we?" He tried to kiss his lips again.

Holmes avoided him nervously. "I-- What sort of friends?"

"Good friends." He frowned, looking hurt and snubbed. "Sherlock--may I call you, Sherlock?" Trevor only found him unresponsive, and he narrowed his eyes pensively. "Haven't you ever kissed your friends?" he asked.

"No." Holmes blinked at him, evaluating Trevor in an altogether new light. Could it be that this fellow was a deviant too? Was the whole university crowded with them?

"It's only an innocent kiss," Trevor assured him. "It's quite common."

Holmes prevented himself from replying, "Common among your sort." He cleared his throat and averted his eyes. "Perhaps you ought to leave now, Trevor."

"Leave?"

Holmes shifted, as if trying to find a graceful way to get around Trevor and off the sofa without straining his still weak ankle.

Trevor stopped him from getting up and grasped him by the arms. "Now wait a minute, what have I done wrong? Aren't we friends after all? I thought you liked me."

Holmes grimaced sternly. "It's the kissing that I mind, Trevor."

"Why? I've kissed all my good friends."

"Is that a country custom?" he sneered.

"No!" Trevor stared at Holmes, astounded that he chose to ignore the plain evidence around him. "The lads around here kiss each other too, or haven't you observed them? You see them every day, strolling along together and smiling and kissing fondly."

Holmes reluctantly admitted, "Yes, it's common, as you said."

"So you know!" Trevor insisted, trying to understand how Holmes could be so uneasy about the slightest show of affection. He sighed sadly, "Why, seeing all those happy friends, those easy chums, it just makes me lonelier to have a friend of my own who'll hold my hand and talk to me--"

"And kiss you too?" he interrupted softly.

"Yes. What's wrong with that?"

Holmes was at a loss, seeing the lack of guile in Trevor's eyes. Perhaps his assessment had been too hasty. Yes, many undergraduates did kiss one another, doing so rather freely in public, but Holmes had always assumed that they were deviants. Maybe Trevor was right, however, about the innocence of a kiss. Some of the kissing chums had seemed quite manly and fervently opposed to any form of Greek love.

Holmes relented, feeling awkward as he tried to excuse his overreaction. "I'm sorry, Trevor. I've told you that my family is far less demonstrative than most. I've not had anyone besides my grandmother kiss me."

Trevor smiled. "Then let me kiss you now!" He pounced on Holmes again and tasted his lips eagerly.

Holmes forced himself not to pull away this time, but could not eradicate his discomfort. He simply had not been raised this way, and he frowned once it ended. "Is that, is that all right?" he stammered.

"Call me Victor, won't you?"

"Well--Victor, then."

Trevor kissed him once more.

"Victor!" he jumped a bit.

Trevor only laughed fondly, still embracing Holmes. "Relax, won't you? You shall never learn to be a normal chap if you don't."

Holmes felt like protesting that he did not want to be a normal chap, but Trevor would have only believed he was being shy. From Trevor's perspective, all men naturally sought and needed the companionship of their peers.

"What a strange life you have lived, Sherlock," Trevor sighed against his shoulder pensively.

Holmes tried not to squirm and wondered why they had become friends, being of such different temperaments. Holmes was alone by choice, Trevor by homesickness.

* * *

As week after week of the academic term passed, Holmes remained friends with Trevor and tried to steer their conversations to the books they read and the lectures they shared, but Trevor often wished to clasp Holmes's hand and discuss his loneliness and other frustrations here at the university. Holmes humoured him, since Trevor after all had displayed considerable patience for Holmes's own eccentricities and faults.

Holmes allowed Trevor to keep kissing him, but only because he still observed other friends doing so, and had analysed their behaviours closely to be sure that they were not secretly lovers. Holmes had his doubts about some couples, but there were enough who behaved innocently that Holmes allowed his own romantic friendship to go on. It was apparently the fashion among young men, and he studied the phenomenon for what it could reveal about human relationships.


	2. Part 2

"Sherlock?"

It still irritated Holmes to hear his friend use that name, as it made him feel far too young and informal, but he did not protest.

"Sherlock," Victor continued, "Will you come spend the long vacation with me? We have excellent hunting and fishing at Donnithorpe, and I should love you to meet my father."

Holmes uncomfortably suspected that the romance in this romantic friendship could be taken too far. "I have some experiments to do in London."

"Well, come for a month at least. I shall have my dog stay in the gamekeeper's house for the duration of your visit."

"I should not like to trouble your household."

"No trouble at all. Please come." As he still hesitated, Victor took hold of his hand and smiled, knowing how to win him over. "I shall call you Holmes, if you like."

"You will?" he looked up.

Victor nodded. "Yes, my father thinks that only little boys hold onto each other and kiss each other so, and that Christian names are only for family to use. He's so old-fashioned, but I love him!" He added sentimentally, "As I love you."

Holmes looked embarrassed and coughed.

Victor laughed gently. "I know, I know. I'll make you a normal chap one of these days, Sherlock, just you wait and see!" He pulled Holmes closer to him and kissed his cheek. "So will you come? Just the first month at least?"

Holmes took a breath. "Yes."

Delighted, Victor wrapped his arms around Holmes's neck, kissing him and whispering, "Call me Victor, once more."

"Victor."

"Sherlock," he replied, before he let go and turned away. "I mean, Holmes."

* * *

So at the end of the term, they travelled to Victor's home in Donnithorpe, and there Holmes met Victor's father, the old justice of the peace. It was a cosy, comfortable household, and Holmes did feel quite at ease. Victor had not exaggerated at all about the quality of the hunting, the fishing, nor the selection of the library.

After dinner, hoping to endear his friend to his father, Victor prompted Holmes to show off his remarkable talent for deduction; Victor's admiration was one of the things that Holmes genuinely enjoyed about his company.

At first Trevor senior had been duly impressed and amused, but then he had fainted at the mention of the initials J. A., which Holmes had seen in an old tattoo on the man's elbow when they had gone fishing. Old Trevor eventually recovered from his shock and remarked that Holmes would make an outstanding detective. Despite such flattery, Holmes remained somewhat disconcerted by the incident.

* * *

That night as Holmes retired to his bedroom, Victor followed him inside. "What praise he gave you, Holmes! I knew he would like you."

Holmes shrugged. "I hope that I did not upset your father."

"Never mind. I think he'll forget about it by morning." He embraced Holmes warmly and kissed him.

Holmes forced a smile, having imagined that Victor might refrain from kisses while under his father's roof.

"Kiss me back," he insisted. Victor looked longingly at him, and it was apparently to be a proof of his friendship.

So Holmes kissed him lightly, tentatively. Unsatisfied with that crumb, Victor caught hold of him and lengthened the kiss. Holmes attempted to end it and speak, but then Victor penetrated his lips and tasted his mouth passionately.

When Holmes could free himself, he stumbled back into the bed and sat down, shaking. "That's not friendship, is it?" he asked breathlessly.

"I-I don't know." Victor shrugged, apparently surprised at his actions too. "I've never felt as close to anyone as I do to you." He came and sat beside him on the bed.

Holmes scooted away from him and swallowed. "How can you feel so close to me? We haven't known each other that long."

"But I've told you everything, everything about me. You don't tell me as much, but that's because you're shy."

"Shy!" Holmes felt exasperated. Why must Victor assign emotions and motivations to him that he did not feel?

He looked hurt. "Don't you feel anything for me? You're the only friend I've made there. My only friend!"

"I care for you, of course, but--" He swallowed and shook his head. "That kiss."

"I'm sorry," Victor clung to his shoulder penitently. "I'm sorry. Please forgive me."

Sensing that his friend might cry, Holmes brushed his fingers through Victor's hair to soothe him. "If you could just... restrain yourself a little..."

"Yes." He calmed and quieted down with this caress.

Holmes nodded, pleased by this progress. "Everything will be all right, Victor. You are my only friend, as well."

My first friend, Holmes thought, and he was glad that he had waited until his maturity to associate with his peers, for they were perplexing creatures indeed. Intimacy was a double-edged sword, offering companionship, but risks as well.

"You should go to bed, Victor, before your father finds us here. Only little boys hold onto each other, right?"

Victor nodded, then kissed Holmes's cheek before he got up to leave.

"Good-night, Victor. Sleep well."

* * *

After that brief episode, the remaining month went by fairly well. Victor determined to be stronger than his momentary impulses, and his kisses became innocuous again.

It was Trevor senior whom Holmes had difficulty with, for the old fellow had not forgotten Holmes's deductions, and he kept looking suspiciously at Holmes, as if he knew more than he was telling. It was not even that he suspected their friendly embraces and kisses, for Holmes had analysed Old Trevor's reactions closely for just that suspicion. No, it was something else, something to do with the initials J. A.

"I should go," Holmes told Victor privately.

His friend nodded with understanding, but remained sad. He clung to Holmes's hand. "Will you write me, in London? You won't forget me come next term?"

"No," he assured, pressing back upon his hand. "Perhaps I'll be a detective like your father suggested, and you'll win me clients with your shameless praise."

They laughed, and because the moment seemed right, Holmes leaned near and softly kissed Victor's lips. After a month, he had grown used to this; it was comfortable and remarkably easy.

Holmes quickly wrote down his address in London for Victor and gave it to him, then they headed outside to the lawn, where Victor's father awaited them. They sat upon the remaining garden chairs and enjoyed the view with him.

Though he tried to hide it behind cordiality, Old Trevor seemed much cheered when he heard that Holmes intended to leave the next day. "Don't want to keep you from your studies, young man."

"I thank you for your hospitality."

Unfortunately, there came a sudden unpleasantness in the form of an old sailor named Hudson, who arrived that afternoon and appeared to have known Trevor senior in the past.

Holmes was puzzled by Old Trevor's deference to the downtrodden sailor, but he did not remain long to investigate it.

* * *

He went up to London to work for seven weeks on experiments in organic chemistry. Victor wrote him letters as the vacation wore on, addressing them "Sherlock", so Holmes reciprocated with "Victor."

Occasionally Victor would mention Hudson with what seemed to be growing irritation, but mostly he wrote of missing Holmes greatly, with all the florid language of romantic friendship. Though he was not quite so dramatic and romantic, Holmes wrote back wistfully that he missed his friend's company too. He was genuinely fond of Victor, which, considering his dispassionate nature, was saying a good deal.

Holmes wrote of his experiments, and books again, and wondered how the dog was doing now that Victor let it roam free once more. His ankle still ached sometimes; Victor playfully offered to come kiss it.

Then came Victor's sudden telegram, begging, "Come, oh come! Something's happened to dad! Help me!"

Holmes dropped everything and returned at once to Donnithorpe. Victor met him at the station with a dog-cart, showing signs of distress and sleeplessness.

"The governor is dying!" Victor announced miserably.

Horrified by the news, Holmes clasped his hand to comfort him, then got onto the cart beside him, and they drove hurriedly to the house. Victor told him of the sinister behaviour of Hudson, and of his father's collapse yesterday evening, due to a short and very strange letter from Fordingham.

Unfortunately, Old Trevor had already died by the time they arrived at the house. Heartbroken, Victor hurried upstairs with the doctor, and Holmes remained in the study, stunned by events.

Victor came down after an hour, clutching some papers and looking blank. Finding Holmes in the study, he locked the door and rushed wordlessly to his arms, breaking down against his friend's shoulder. Holmes held him close and tried to soothe him, kissing him and brushing his hair tenderly. "I'm sorry, my dear Victor, so sorry."

"I never thought this would happen, or I should have told you more in my letters. I thought Father would send the wretched Hudson away, or I would take care of it, or..." he choked.

Holmes hushed his tears.

Finally Victor was able to compose himself, and he reached for the papers he had dropped. First he handed to Holmes the mysterious note that had caused his father's collapse, begging Holmes to discern what it could mean.

Holmes read and reread the note, analysing the words until he deciphered, "The game is up. Hudson has told all. Fly for your life."

Hudson apparently held some awful secret over both Trevor and his old friend Beddoes, enough to strike fear deep into their hearts.

Victor remembered the rest of the papers then, and handed them to Holmes to examine. It was a long statement that Trevor senior had drawn up a few days ago, when Hudson had left in a huff for Mr. Beddoes's residence. Victor asked Holmes to read it for him, as he had no heart to, and Holmes asked if it might not be a personal message from his father, but Victor only responded, "From you I have no secrets."

So Holmes read it out to him, revealing that Old Trevor was no Trevor after all. He was James Armitage, a convict involved in a violent mutiny on a prison ship bound for Australia during the Crimean War. Beddoes had also been there under his former name of Evans, and Hudson had been a sailor on the ship who witnessed its destruction. Now that Beddoes and Trevor had made their fortunes in Australia and become respectable men back home in England, Hudson had turned up to blackmail them with their past.

When Holmes finished reading the terrible history of the _Gloria Scott_, they sat in silence together, not knowing what to say.

Victor asked at last, "What about Hudson? Where's he gone? After Beddoes?"

"Yes. It seems he did as he threatened when he left you, though Beddoes managed to get a warning out in that cipher, so he at least may have escaped."

"What should I do?"

"Rest, have your father buried, and grieve. Let me speak to the police about Hudson and Beddoes, and I can ask them what they intend to do."

"Thank you, so much."

Holmes kissed Victor, then they parted sombrely, each to his own task.

The local police had already heard the sad news of the old J.P.'s death, but no one had informed them yet about the sinister Hudson nor about the note that had sent Old Trevor to his deathbed. Holmes had never dealt officially with the police before, and he strove to act as a professional of sorts, introducing himself as a friend of the family who wanted to know what was being done about Hudson. "Hudson who?" the police replied, and now it was clear that Hudson had not actually betrayed anyone's secrets to the police yet. Still, the guilty truth must emerge eventually, so Holmes explained what had happened leading up to, and after, Old Trevor's death.

The police listened to his fantastic story, thinking that Holmes might be some young prankster until he showed them the cipher message, and Old Trevor's posthumous confession of mutiny aboard the _Gloria Scott_. With this proof, they now agreed that Hudson seemed to be a plausible threat to Mr. Beddoes in Fordingham and immediately made inquiries to Hampshire. The police there reported back that Beddoes had gone missing, and they too had never heard of this suspect Hudson. Soon the two police forces were busy collaborating in hopes of finding Beddoes and Hudson before some fresh tragedy occurred.

Holmes finally got the Donnithorpe police to pause their investigation long enough to say that no, Victor Trevor would not be held accountable for his father's past crimes as James Armitage. This assurance relieved some of Holmes's worries about Victor's fate, so he left the police station at last, wondering if he would often have to deal with policemen if he ever became a detective.

That night, when Holmes retired to the same guestroom that he had occupied upon his last visit, he found Victor lying in the bed. Looking fragile, Victor begged Holmes to hold him again, and so he did, letting him weep some more in his arms. Then they lay down and slept beside each other in solemn silence.

By the morning, Victor had returned to his own bed, knowing how people might talk.


	3. Part 3

Holmes remained at Donnithorpe for some days, comforting Victor and waiting for further developments. But neither Hudson nor Beddoes were ever heard from again, and Holmes had no proof of his theory that Beddoes had killed Hudson and escaped to start a new life somewhere else.

Ashamed and disgraced by the whole affair, Victor decided to go to Terai, and not return to university in the coming term. Holmes tried to talk him out of it, but Victor said he needed to be alone with his thoughts. He promised to write and kissed Holmes good-bye, calling him "Sherlock" a final time.

It was with the passage of time, and the distance, that the feeling cooled between them, though in truth, Holmes had only warmed up a little in the first place.

Holmes stayed with his university studies awhile, before deciding to depart for his new profession as a detective; Old Trevor's suggestion had grown on him with time. For a few years Holmes concentrated solely on his work and did not enter another friendship, let alone a romantic one again. He knew that such an odd, tangled relationship could not be embarked upon lightly, and he thought he had learned plenty, anyhow.

* * *

Then came Watson, a quite unexpected friend. At first they had only been fellow lodgers, but Watson overcame Holmes's reticence and they now shared Holmes's cases as trusted partners. It surprised Holmes how much he enjoyed Watson's companionship, since their temperaments, too, were dissimilar. Watson was warm and empathetic where Holmes was aloof and logical.

One evening as they returned from an exhausting case, sitting opposite each other in a four-wheeler, Holmes looked up from his silent introspection to see Watson watching his face and leaning near to him.

Startled, Holmes involuntarily sat back from him, and Watson interpreted his slight frown as discouragement, instead of distraction, so he simply withdrew and sat back for the rest of the ride. No words were spoken.

Holmes almost convinced himself that he had imagined the incident, until later, when he lay in his bed alone, and wondered if Watson's unexplained movement might have possibly been an attempt at a kiss.

A kiss? Surely not? But then again, it need not be a sign of deviance on Watson's part. It might have been only the kiss of romantic friendship. Watson had shown already that he considered Holmes a good friend; perhaps a kiss was all that he meant, but having noticed Holmes's unnatural coldness to people, he was fully prepared to find his affection rebuffed.

Holmes turned over these possibilities in his mind, but could not come to a definite conclusion. If only Holmes had spoken then, asked for some explanation from Watson! Weary from these thoughts, Holmes fell uneasily asleep.

* * *

In the days following, Holmes examined their relationship minutely and saw that they were indeed growing more intimate day by day. It was like that first friendship with Victor Trevor, only they were not naïve undergraduates.

Watson clearly took the incident in the cab in stride; he still felt there must be a human somewhere beneath Holmes's aloof exterior, and he believed the pursuit of that humanity to be worthwhile. He soon tried again to be affectionate to Holmes, and this time Holmes permitted the kiss, which was soft and chaste. Then Watson smiled at him with pure friendliness, and no more.

It relieved Holmes, and yet disappointed him somehow.

So theirs had become a romantic friendship too, with warm glances, light kisses, and clasped hands. They did not discuss the terms of it, simply letting it happen naturally. Watson did appreciate Holmes's strong need for privacy, however, and restrained his affections whenever they were not alone.

Yet dangerous feelings started to stir beneath the innocuous veneer. When by chance Watson saw the scar upon Holmes's ankle, the doctor examined it with curiosity and inquired about its origin. Holmes responded distractedly, realising with shock that he sorely wanted Watson's kiss there--in fact, everywhere. How strange that, after his frequent apprehension of deviance in other men, he had discovered such deviance in himself.

Did Watson never suspect? He mentioned to Holmes other friendships he had had, some of them devoted, but he seemed to take no notice of Holmes's behaviour as being at all different or out of the ordinary.

Risking a great deal, Holmes kissed him more often, and once even asked him back to his bedroom, to examine his injuries and scars. Watson readily accepted the invitation, being obsessed as ever with Holmes's health, and he casually undressed Holmes as if there were nothing unusual or dubious about combining friendship with a doctor-patient consultation. Watson paid the most attention to the needle marks on his arm and took the opportunity to discourage Holmes's cocaine use yet again. Holmes changed the subject by asking if he might in turn view Watson's war wound. After an initial hesitation, Watson consented and stripped so that Holmes could see and touch the old scar upon his shoulder. If Holmes had any remnant doubt about his hunger for Watson, it was erased by the sight of his naked chest and the feel of his warm skin.

Still Watson regarded their touches as innocent and made no untoward advances, frustrating Holmes desperately. He resolved that he must tell him, somehow, about his perverse desires.

So the next evening after dinner, as they smoked by the sitting-room fire, Holmes spoke quietly and unexpectedly, "Watson, would you like to hear about my first case?"

"Your first case?" Watson's eyes lit up with excitement. "I have often wondered about that, Holmes. Do you really mean it?"

"Yes," he answered. "I think it would be all right to tell you."

"Wonderful!" Watson beamed.

Holmes rose from his chair. "But I would prefer not to tell you here, Watson. There are... private aspects to this case. Would you come with me to my bedroom?"

Watson blinked, perhaps puzzled by the repetition of yesterday's visit, but then he accepted it with a shrug. "Oh, um, all right." He rose from his own chair, curious about what could be so private. "May I take notes? Just for myself; I won't publish if you don't--"

"Bring your notebook, then." While Watson retrieved his notebook from his desk, Holmes discreetly locked the door of their sitting-room.

Then he led the way to his bedroom and Watson followed without remark. Locking his bedroom door behind them, he gestured for Watson to sit on the edge of his bed. Holmes took up a little cylinder of paper that he had earlier left upon his night-stand, and he joined Watson on the bed.

"Is that from the case?" Watson asked with anticipation.

Holmes nodded and undid the tape so that he could unroll the half-sheet of grey notepaper. Showing it to Watson, he could not help a touch of the dramatic. "This is the message which struck Justice of the Peace Trevor dead with horror when he read it."

With such a preface, Watson eagerly read the note, only to be bewildered by the nonsensical message about 'the supply of game for London.' He frowned. "Fly-paper? Hen-pheasant? What in the world does it mean?"

"I shall explain that later, but let me tell you the story from the beginning." He cleared his throat. "I said before that there were certain private aspects to this case."

"Yes, Holmes. How private? More so than other cases we've shared?"

"In this case, the private aspects do not simply concern my client, but myself as well."

"Yourself?" he frowned. "How?"

"You never heard me talk of Victor Trevor?" he said slowly. "He was the only friend I made during the two years I was at college."

"Really?" Watson's interest was truly piqued now. Holmes had always avoided talking about his youth.

"I--I was never a very sociable fellow," he began, relating all he could remember of that first friendship, and its unexpected consequences.

Watson looked pensive and amazed when he had heard the whole story. The case itself paled in importance to the surrounding personal details that Holmes had revealed to him, and he had stopped taking notes already. "So," Watson spoke at last, "he kissed you sometimes as if he craved more, but it never led to more? I'm sure you were relieved."

"Has any of your friends ever wanted more from you?"

"My friends? Hmm, well there might have been one or two, or perhaps it was my imagination..."

Holmes kissed him suddenly, strongly. He opened Watson's mouth and made him breathless.

"Holmes," he said, blinking.

"Have I... judged you wrongly?" He looked worried and lonely, emotions that Watson had never seen upon his face before.

Watson leaned near, staring into Holmes's vulnerable eyes. "You really want this? It is not a mistaken feeling, a momentary...?"

"What is your answer?" he demanded anxiously.

Watson reached for his shoulder to soothe him, then kissed him slowly, carefully, exploring the taste and feel of his warm mouth. "Do I kiss as well as Victor?" he whispered.

"Better." He virtually purred in his arms, and sighed when Watson lay down with him on the bed.

And with that, their romantic friendship became something else entirely, to be hidden from others not merely for privacy's sake, but because it was unsanctioned by law and morality. They did not care, and let it happen naturally.


End file.
